The story of a certain British steamship travelling from Lerwick to Iceland and torpedoed on the way has been told in the London 'Daily Mail' by the famous novelist Joseph Conrad, in these words:--

"The ship went down in less than four minutes. The
captain was the last man on board, going down with her, and was
sucked under. On coming up he was caught under an upturned boat to which five hands were clinging.

'One lifeboat,' says the chief engineer, 'which was floating empty in the distance was cleverly
manoeuvred to our assistance by the steward, who swam off to her
pluckily. Our next endeavour was to release the captain, who was
entangled under the boat. As it was impossible to right her, we
set-to to split her side open with the boat hook, because by awful
bad luck the head of the axe we had flew off at the first blow and
was lost. The rescue took 30 minutes, and the extricated
captain was in a pitiable condition, being badly bruised and having
swallowed a lot of salt water. He was unconscious. While at that
work the submarine came to the surface quite close and made a
complete circle round us, the seven men that we counted on the
conning tower laughing at our efforts.

"There were 18 of us saved. I deeply regret the loss of the
chief officer, a fine fellow and a kind shipmate showing splendid
promise. The other men lost -- one A.B., one greaser, and two
firemen -- were quiet, conscientious, good fellows.'

With no restoratives in the boat, they endeavoured to bring the
captain round by means of massage. Meantime the oars were got out
in order to reach the Faroes, which were about thirty miles dead to
windward, but after about nine hours' hard work they had to desist,
and, putting out a sea-anchor, they took shelter under the canvas
boat-cover from the cold wind and torrential rain.

Says the
narrator: 'We were all very wet and miserable, and decided to have
two biscuits all round. The effects of this and being under the
shelter of the canvas warmed us up and made us feel pretty well
contented. At about sunrise the captain showed signs of recovery,
and by the time the sun was up he was looking a lot better, much to
our relief.' After being informed of what had been done the revived captain
'dropped a bombshell in our midst,' by proposing to make for the
Shetlands, which were 'only one hundred and fifty miles off.' 'The
wind is in our favour,' he said. 'I will take you there.
Are you willing?' This, comments the chief engineer, from a
man who but a few hours previously had been hauled back from the
grave!' The captain's confident manner inspired the men, and they
all agreed.

Under the best possible conditions a boat-run of 150 miles in the North Atlantic and in winter weather
would have been a feat of no mean merit, but in the circumstances
it required uncommon nerve and skill to carry out such a promise.
With an oar for a mast and the boat cover cut down for a sail they
started on their dangerous journey, with the boat compass and the
stars for their guide. The captain's undaunted serenity buoyed
them all up against despondency. He told them what point he was
making for. It was Ronas Hill -- 'and we struck it as straight as a
die.'

'And there was our captain, just his usual self, as if nothing had happened: as if bringing the boat that hazardous journey and being
the means of saving 18 souls was to him an everyday
occurrence.'"

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